


Life's Uneven Kilter

by theslovenlyfool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, John is good at acting, John loves 80s power ballads, M/M, Mariah Carey - Freeform, Mycroft is rarely wrong, S3 spoilers, Secretly Married, Sherlock is VERY gay, Sherlock puts up with John because he loves him, dancing in the moonlight, everything turns out right in the end, sex but no porn, so there's angst but also the fluff will rot your teeth, the case of a lifetime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7422433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theslovenlyfool/pseuds/theslovenlyfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"According to Sherlock, the game began on September 21, 2005 at precisely 10:37:04 am. </p><p>John complained that, with that logic, the game had actually begun on January 7, 2000, at around 1:30 am. But for Sherlock, games are only fun when others are willing to play. What is a game without an adversary, after all? And what is a proper dash across London without a partner? <em>Now,</em> Sherlock thought as he assessed the doctor with the unforgivable cane, <em>the game is on.</em>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Name of the Game

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete and will be posted every Thursday for the next four weeks. 
> 
> Frankly, this was supposed to be 3,000 words tops...oops. I hope you enjoy!

_The beating of my heart is a drum, and it's lost_  
_and it's looking for a rhythm like you._  
_“Making Love Out of Nothing At All,” Air Supply_

 

Blood drips from Sherlock’s forehead. He watches, in mild interest, as the blood patters in a syncopated dance on the concrete floor. He shifts his face as one droplet falls beside his shoe. Italian leather isn’t cheap to come by, after all. Besides, the shoes were a gift.  
High heels click against the dirty floor. Sherlock feels her presence behind him and he sits up as straight as he can considering the zip ties around his ankles and wrists. He feels cool metal run across his cheek.  


“You haven’t shaved, Sherlock,” She observes, her gun running along a scruffy cheek. “It’s a good look for you. Makes you seem more…unhinged.”  


Sherlock tries not to smirk. “I have to keep some degree of sanity in my appearance. I have an international reputation to uphold, after all.” This was a truthful response, but not the reason he shaved even on days when there were no cases and he stayed in his pajamas all day. That reason could be narrowed down to a single word. “You’ve made a mistake, Mary.”  


She laughs, removing the knife from his skin. “Are you kidding? _You_ made the mistake, Sherlock. You deduced _wrong_. You deduced _me wrong_.”  


“You should hardly worry yourself with my deductions at a time like this.”  


Sherlock hears the sound of a gun being cocked and feels cold metal pressed against his temple. Mary steps into his line of sight and Sherlock can’t help but grin. It takes It 

It takes Mary a moment to realize he’s not grinning at her, but instead, at the man pointing a gun at her back.  


Mary turns and grins, stepping back so that John may see his bruised and battered friend. John locks eyes with Sherlock before turning a cold stare on Mary.  


Mary raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t shoot your wife, would you, John?”  


John laughs. At first, it is a surprised chuckle, but is dissolves into something harsh and determined and angry which, as it ends, makes the room feel colder. “I don’t have a wife,” John says before firing his gun. 

Later, John and Sherlock sit side by side in an ambulance, both wrapped in shock blankets they don’t actually need. Lestrade stands in front of them, arms crossed, eyes showing his blatant confusion and anger.  


“You shot Mary Watson?” Lestrade asks for the third time.  


Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh, but John nods firmly. “Yes.”  


“Your wife?”  


“No.”  


“I _saw_ you marry her.”  


“Yes, but it was an illegitimate marriage.”  


Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose. “So you lied to everyone and had us all celebrate a fake wedding?”  


“Technically, Mary didn’t know it was fake, so it was partially in earnest,” Sherlock argues.  


“Yes. I invited you to my fake wedding,” John says after giving Sherlock a look. “Then again, you all seemed to enjoy it and seeing as no one came to my _real wedding_ , I’m still glad you took the time to come.”  


Lestrade stops him with a hand. “Hold it. So you’re actually married?”  


John nods, giving Lestrade a barely contained grin. “Yes, I am. Have been for ten years, ten months, twenty seven days, sixteen hours,” John looks at his watch, “thirty three minutes and…”  


“Twelve seconds,” Sherlock offers.  


John gives him a quick smile before turning back to Lestrade. “About fifteen seconds.”  


“To whom?!”  


“To Sherlock Holmes.”  


Lestrade turns and sits heavily beside John on the ambulance. John offers him a shock blanket which he takes mutely. “Right,” Lestrade mutters. “Right, why don’t you start at the beginning?”  


“Which beginning?”  


“Just…tell me everything. Tell me all the lies, Sherlock. Every single one.”  


“Right,” John says, “of course, Lestrade, of course.” He pauses before beginning his story. They do not leave the ambulance until John (with frequent interruptions from Sherlock) finishes the explanation. They are silent for a moment as Lestrade absorbs everything.  


“That…is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”  


Sherlock smirks, “It was the case of a lifetime.”  


~*~  
According to John, the game began when he stepped into the lap at St. Bart’s.  


Sherlock argued that, with that logic, the game had begun six weeks earlier when John had returned invalidated from Afghanistan. But for John, a game is only a game when all the pieces are in play, and that only happened when Mike Stamford brought him to Sherlock Holmes. _Now_ , John thought, glancing at a mop of curls poking out from behind a microscope, _comes the fun bit._  


A pair of piercing eyes assessed him and John had to hold back his grin.  


“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

That night, John had been woken to the sound of someone drunkenly singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ outside his door. Grimacing, John limped to the door and stepped back as a wiry hobo fell into his flat.  


“John,” the man slurred, attempting to steady himself against the coffee table.  


“Can I help you?” John smirked, crossing his arms and watching the man put on a show of rediscovering his legs.  


A flash of familiar eyes and a wicked grin. “Not at all.” He began to look around the flat, picking up things at random and frowning. He licked the bottom of John’s lamp before turning to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  


“So, what should I call you, then? Strange Scoundrel Making Tea seems a mite long,” John said, sitting at the kitchen table and watching as the hobo made tea.  


“Scoundrel?” He mused, setting a mug of tea in front of John and sitting across from him, stirring sugar into his own drink. “You may call me Basil.”  


John nearly chocked on his tea.  


Basil grinned. “Be careful, John, the tea is still hot.”  


John glared at him over his cup. “You shouldn’t be here.”  


“Do you want me to leave?”  


“Of course not.”  


“I have a letter for you.”  


“Do you?”  


“Yes. Follow the directions exactly.” Basil drew a greasy envelope from his coat and slid it across the table.  


“Is that all it is, directions?” John asks, pulling the envelope toward his chest.  


“Of course not.”  


Basil left without finishing his tea. He glared at the cane in John’s grasp but said nothing. He threw a lazy wave across his shoulder as he strolled out of the building, whistling ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ John had waited until Basil was gone from sight before closing the door and returning to his cold bed. He opened the letter, reading the instructions carefully before putting them on his bedside table. At the bottom of the envelope was a letter with four words written across it. John blinked hard before getting up and putting the note in a shoebox under his bed.  


He did not sleep well that night.  


Neither, of course, did Basil, but John didn’t like to think about that. 

According to Sherlock, the game began on September 21, 2005 at precisely 10:37:04 am.  


John complained that, with that logic, the game had actually begun on January 7, 2000, at around 1:30 am. But for Sherlock, games are only fun when others are willing to play. What is a game without an adversary, after all? And what is a proper dash across London without a partner? _Now_ , Sherlock thought as he assessed the doctor with the unforgiveable cane, _the game is on._

“Good shot,” Sherlock said, eyes shining in the police lights.  


“Yes. Must have been, through that window.”  


“Well you’d know.”  


Sherlock and John stared at each other, trying very hard not to burst out laughing. It was easier for John, seeing as he also wanted to punch Sherlock in the nose for being such a moron.  


They go through the motions of talking, skirting around each other, both of their minds wandering to the moment in which a bullet had been shot through two windows and into a dying man’s shoulder. And suddenly, they are laughing. Well, giggling really. Donovan gives them an odd look, and as far as John’s concerned, that’s an added bonus to this frankly terrific day. Sherlock had given him back his leg as well as the promise of adventure and a cozy flat.  


“Dinner?” Sherlock asked and John nearly did laugh.  


Instead, he merely said, “Starving,” as though it were the punchline to an inside joke. 

John had met Sherlock the night before he did his first tour in Afghanistan. His friends had invited him out for a drink and his parents had wanted to take him out to dinner, but John had wanted to go to Kensington Gardens, so that’s exactly what he did.  


John took a blanket, a radio, and a liter of Coke and sat in the park until the sun went down and he could play his music as loud as he wanted.  


That is where Sherlock had found him, looking up at the stars and humming along to “Dancing in the Moonlight.”  


“Afghanistan or Iraq?”  


John returned from his daydream to find a pair of quicksilver eyes dissecting him. He blinked up at a pale face framed by a mop of chestnut curls and felt his face go hot as the lyrics, _supernatural delight_ , came to mind. “Afghanistan,” he mustered. “Sorry, how did you know that?”  


“Why aren’t you with your friends? You obviously have some.”  


John shrugged, “I didn’t feel like going out…Do you want to sit?”  


John made room for him on the blanket and after a pause in which an elegant eyebrow was raised, he sat down beside John.  


John offered him his hand. “I’m John Watson.”  


“Doctor.”  


“Yes. How do you do that?”  


“I observe. Why will you miss London more than your loved ones?”  


There was a silence as the song became a commercial and John turned off the radio. When he spoke, it was to the stars. “I’ll make friends, I always have. In regards to loved ones…I suppose I don’t love any of them as much as I probably should. But London...the only place I’ve ever wanted to live was London…tell me how you ‘observe’ or whatever.”  


He grinned. “Your hands. They are small and calloused, they match the set in your shoulders which, although still boyish, are in the stance of a military man. But with hands like that, you must a surgeon, thus, a doctor. Judging by your age, fresh out of school. Where would the military send a new surgeon? Afghanistan or Iraq?”  


John blinked and a huge grin spread across his face. “That was amazing!”  


His face went blank, searching for the lie. “You think so?”  


“Yes. It was good! Quite good. Can you do that with everyone?”  


“Of course.”  


“You must be fun at parties.”  


“I wouldn’t know.”  


“What’s your name?”  


The grin that had slowly been spreading across his face disappeared. He rose hurriedly, gathering his battered coat around him. “Good evening, Doctor Watson.”  


John had him by the coat sleeve before he could turn. “Oi! You can’t just bugger off like that. How will I see you again without knowing your name?”  


“Why would you want to see me again?”  


John grinned. “Because you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”  


He gaped at John for a moment that lasts so long John began to feel uncomfortable. When he did speak, it was little more than a whisper. “Sherlock Holmes.” He pulled out a business card from his pocket and handed it to John. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”  


John grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.”  


Sherlock stared at him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity before popping his coat collar and sauntering off into the night.  


“I guess I’ll see you later then!” John called after him.  


Sherlock threw a lazy wave over his shoulder and John grinned, rubbing the business card between his fingers. 

John was surprised when he received a letter two months into his tour. He hadn’t received a single letter since he came to Afghanistan, there hardly seemed a reason to start getting them now. At first, he had assumed it was his mum telling him that some relative had died, but the letter wasn’t from his mum. It was from Sherlock Holmes.  
John took the letter to his tent where he held it in his lap, staring at the sharp handwriting in confused wonder. He had received a _letter_. He had received a letter from the most interesting man he had ever met, an _attractive_ most interesting man he had ever met. John ran his fingers across the battered envelope. Why had he sent him the letter? _How_ had he sent him the letter?  


“Oh, bugger it,” John said, tearing open the envelope. The letter inside was written on a Tesco’s receipt for five gallons of milk and a packet of chocolate Hob Nobs. Scrawled on the back of the receipt, John read: 

_John- I have changed my address and am sending this letter to inform you of the fact. For someone who was so determined to keep in touch, you’re doing a dismal job of it. Regards, SH._

John grinned stupidly and scrambled for a piece of paper. 

**Sherlock,**  
**How did you find my address? Also, why do you need five gallons of milk? -John  
**PS- I like chocolate Hob Nobs too.****

John ran out to post it that very afternoon. 

And thus began what Sherlock considered the start of their love affair and what John called the Epic Penpalship of 2000. 

_John- The milk was for an experiment. I wanted to determine how a dead body soaked in milk would decompose under different environmental variables. The smell of decomposed flesh in off milk, however, did get me kicked out of my flat. It is not hard to find a solider in Afghanistan. Besides, I am a genius, nothing is hard for me. How is Afghanistan? Regards, SH.  
_P.S. Do you take tea with your Hob Nobs? And if so, how do you take it? My guess is black, although in the morning perhaps with milk._ _

**Sherlock,**  
**Do you do such experiments often? What, in fact, do you do? How do you get the corpses?**  
**Afghanistan is alright. War is war, I suppose. I’ve made some friends, haven’t been shot yet, and I’ve saved a few lives. The sand is a bloody bastard. It gets in everything. Sometimes I feel like the sand will wear me down to my bones if I stay here too long. That’s impossible, I know, but at night I think of odd things.**  
**Sincerely,**  
**John**  
**PS- I take my tea black as well as my coffee. Sometimes I have my tea white, but only in the evenings. Tea with chocie biscuits is the best. How do you take your tea/coffee? Also, do you actually own paper? And why do none of these grocery receipts have actual groceries on them? Wine gums don’t count as groceries.**

_John- I am a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth (which is always) they come to me for help. I do such experiments constantly, it prevents the boredom of life from consuming me. I get the bodies from the mortician at St. Bart’s. She is always more than obliging about such things. Nothing is impossible, John, only improbable. –Sherlock_  
_P.S. I take my coffee and tea black with two sugars. Blast. Why do you take tea white in the evenings? Does it have something to do with your grandmother? Digestion slows me down._

**Sherlock,**  
**That’s amazing! Have you solved any cool cases? I’m sorry the banality of life gets you down. What else do you do, besides terrorize your landlord?**  
**-John  
**PS- Yes, it has something to do with my grandmother. You’ll have to guess what, though, Mr. Big Shot Consulting Detective. And you do realize that you have to digest wine gums and Hob Nobs, right?** **

_John- I play the violin. I also collect different tobacco ash. –Sherlock_  
_P.S. Of course I don’t have to digest wine gums. You’re a doctor, you should know these things. I need time to stew over the grandmother issue. I will have a conclusion by the time you read this._

That was the letter that came in an envelope from a medical facility. With it, was a note from a man named Mycroft Holmes which read:  


_Doctor Watson,_  
_Under the orders of my brother, I am writing you to inform you that your correspondence will continue as usual. However, I feel the need to tell you that Sherlock Holmes is currently getting clean of a cocaine addiction. His new contact information has been enclosed._  
_Regards,_  
_Mycroft Holmes_

John was in the mess the first time he received a phone call. It was not usual for someone to get a call. In fact, it was damn near impossible and yet, there John was, being offered a telephone by a man who looked too afraid to ask why someone like John was getting a direct call in a warzone.  


John hated speaking on the phone. “Hello?” He asked, his tone confused and irritated.  


“John.”  


“…Sherlock?” John sat down, a wide grin growing across his face. “How did you call me in _Afghanistan_?”  


An irritated sigh. “John, as previously stated, I am a genius-“  


“Nothing is hard for you.”  


John could almost hear the surprised smile cross Sherlock’s face. “Yes.”  


“Is everything alright?”  


“Absolutely not, John. The nurses here won’t let me preform my experiments. My brain is currently turning to rot. I can feel it. Tomorrow I’ll be nearly _normal_.” He said ‘normal’ as though it were an incurable illness.  


John grinned. “If it makes you feel better, I sent you a package the other day. It’ll take a while to get there, but it may just cure your boredom.”  


A delighted gasp came from the other end of the phone and John grinned. Sherlock sounded six years old. “Really?! This is excellent, what is it? No! Don’t say anything. It’s tobacco ash, isn’t it?”  


“What?”  


“It is. I can tell.”  


“How the bloody hell did you figure that out?”  


“It was in the last letter I sent to you. It makes sense, seeing as, being deployed, you would have access to a range of different countries’ tobacco.”  


“Well…I hope you like it.”  


“Yes…thank you, John.”  
Sherlock hung up before John could say anything in response. 

The next week, at the same time, Sherlock called again.  


“Hey, Sherlock.”  


“I received your package. They let me keep it. That was their first mistake.”  


“Oh god, what have you done?”  


“It doesn’t matter John, what’s done is done.”  


“Sherlock. What did you do?”  


“I may have stolen Kurt Rogers.”  


“Who?”  


“Kurt Rogers, age 53, has been here for three months, attempting to overcome an alcohol addiction. He has one leg and needs to be rolled around because he’s too lazy to move himself, which I completely understand and agree with. If I could get away with that I would.”  


“What have you done to Kurt Rogers?”  


“Well, I don’t have any cash, you see. But Kurt Rogers gets cash every week from his wife who’s cheating on him with her next door neighbor. Kurt doesn’t mind, though, because he’s cheating on her with the security guard here. So, because he’s sleeping with the security guard, sometimes he is able to escape this godforsaken place. And because he has cash, he can buy things. So I said I’d get him to a grocery store to buy some alcohol if he’d get me out of here long enough to get a microscope and smuggle it back with me.”  


“Sherlock, where are you now?”  


“Kurt and I are in a Starbucks, actually. Kurt, say hello to John.” John heard the distant sound of a grumpy voice greeting him.  


“Hello, Kurt.”  


“Hello, John. It’s me again. We’re getting coffee now and then we’ll be off, I think. Do you have a place to hide, Kurt? Or should we go back?”  


“Sherlock, you should go back.”  


“Why on earth would I do that when I can run my experiments in Kurt’s predictably shady apartment where he brings his lovers so his wife won’t notice.”  


“Well for one, Sherlock, going to Kurt’s shady apartment sounds a little not good, don’t you think?”  


“I don’t see why. Kurt, do you want to have sex with me?”  


John could hear a distant, “Fuck yeah, mate.”  


“Excuse me, John.” Sherlock’s muffled voice can be heard over the hand that must have been pressed against the mouth piece. “Kurt, we discussed this, no sex. I’ll leave you here, I swear I will, and then you’ll have to push yourself back.” The hand came off the mouth piece, “Hello John. We’ve sorted it out. There is no danger in me going to the sex dunge-oh dear, they’ve found us.”  


“What? Who found you?”  


“The doctors, who else? Wretched people. Hold the microscope, Kurt. We’ll make a run for it.”  


“Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s going on?” John said, trying not to laugh.  


The sound of panting and old wheels squeaking before Sherlock shouts, “Come on, Kurt! Shove it up your shirt, they won’t frisk you, you’re clearly a hostage in this situation. Leave the booze! No, Kurt!” The phone broke off suddenly and John could only assume that they had been caught. He hung up the phone laughing.  


That evening, on duty, he was still grinning like an idiot. Bill asked him what was on his mind, but John merely shook his head, unsure how to explain Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and cocaine addict who unpeeled John’s layers with a single glance. How could he explain it to Bill when he could barely make sense of it himself?  


“Oh, come on, John, let us in on the secret. Who’s the girl?”  


“Uh…” John muttered, blushing crimson.  


Bill blinked. “Who’s the bloke, then?”  


John’s blush deepened. Bill chuckled.  


“I haven’t seen you have a go at anyone. Not a single soul. Your balls must be shriveled up by now from the disuse. He must be some fella, if he’s got you this bad. How long have you been together?”  


“We’re, uhm, not ‘together.”  


“Ooooh give me details, Watson, what’s he like.”  


“He’s…amazing.”  


“Alright...got any more adjectives or is that it? What’s he look like? Is he tall? I bet you like ‘em tall.”  


John squirmed under the scrutiny, his eyes looking anywhere but at Bill. “Yeah, he’s pretty tall.”  


“God, this is like pulling teeth, speak, man!” Bill complained. It was the last thing he said before a bullet tore into his chest.  


Immediately, John was over top of him, covering him from the spray of bullets. “Bill! Bill, hang in there!” John shouted over the fray. He tore through Bill’s shirt, bandaging him as best as he could. “You’re going to be fine, Bill, just fine. It’s just a scratch.”  


Bill’s panicked eyes fell on him with a trust that was nearly consumed with pain. John gave him a soft smile before a bullet tore into his shoulder.  


No one was there to help him. He was the doctor, after all. He was the one meant to heal people.  


By the time anyone could get to them, both Bill and John were unconscious.  


Later, it would be recognized that, had John not fallen over top of Bill Murray’s wound, the man would have bled out in the dessert. This, more than anything, had brought a wry grin over Sherlock’s face. Only John Watson would save a man’s life while unconscious and dying. John would scold him, telling him it was merely coincidence. Sherlock would scold him in return, by saying there was no such thing as _coincidence._


	2. Holding Hands With Your Heart

_Do you remember the_  
 _21st night of September?_  
_“September,” Earth, Wind, and Fire_

 

John woke in Britain six weeks after being shot. He was groggy from the flight, the drugs, the reality of his shattered body, the rain pattering outside his window…frankly, he was groggy from life as a whole and for a while the nurses were worried because he would flip through the radio stations until he found depressing music, usually of the 80s power ballad variety and lay in his agony. It got to the point where he was youtube-ing power ballads on the phone Harry brought him and the nurses would find him, staring blankly at the ceiling, phone on his chest, listening to Bonnie Tyler for hours.

On the fifth play of “Making Love Out of Nothing At All,” things were starting to get ridiculous. Then, because this was the life of John Watson, they became more so. 

“Where is he? I need to see him immediately.” 

“Excuse me, sir, who are you looking for?” 

“Doctor John Watson! Where is he?!” 

“Sir, you cannot go in-“ 

“Ah! John, there you are. Why are you listening to that awful drivel?” 

John stared in complete and utter shock at Sherlock Holmes, Big Shot Consulting Detective, clad in a large, dramatic coat. He wondered when he would stop being flabbergasted by Sherlock. A part of him hoped that day would never come. 

“Sherlock?!” 

Sherlock moved a pastel, plastic chair over to John’s bedside and fell into it with an air of drama that would have made a prima donna jealous. “John.” 

Later, John would recognize the flashes of emotion in Sherlock’s eyes as fear, relief, affection, devotion. All in all, it was a look John would receive often and it was a look reserved for him alone. 

“That day at the hospital,” John would say, a few months in the future as he lay, curled around Sherlock, a hand running through the man’s curls. “When you said my name…I didn’t realize.” 

“That I was desperately in love with you?” 

John would chuckle and kiss Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock would cuddle closer, pressing his hand against John’s bare back. “Well, yes, but I was going to say, I didn’t realize that my name could be an endearment.” 

Sherlock would lift his head and study John with piercing eyes and John would not balk from the invasive stare. “Of course it’s an endearment, John. It is the dearest endearment there is.” 

What Sherlock wouldn’t say (mostly because John already knew, of _course_ he knew, but also because he couldn’t, Sherlock simply couldn’t find the right words) was how, the first thing he had done upon returning to his dodgy flat after meeting the most extraordinary person he had ever met in Kensington Gardens (of all places) was google the meaning of the name “John.” And how he had read, “God is gracious,” and had laughed because Sherlock Holmes had never believed in a god, never once in his life and yet here he was, at two in the morning on a Tuesday (make that a Wednesday), having googled a _name meaning_ , and a part of him knew, without reason nor logic, that if there really was a god, then perhaps he was gracious. Because even then, Sherlock Holmes had been in love with John Watson. In fact, he would argue that he had been in love with John Watson from the moment he laid eyes on the man, lounging in the dark, humming some song that Sherlock would proceed to google after he was finished laughing at the irony of John’s name. It had taken precisely two seconds for Sherlock Holmes’ eyes to bore into John long enough to feel (because it was not a _knowing_ , this love) that he would never have to be alone again. What Sherlock neglected to tell John was that he had listened to “Dancing in the Moonlight” for the rest of the night, hadn’t slept a wink. What he couldn’t tell John was that he had come to see his name as his small admittance that if not a god, then _something_ was gracious enough to lead him to John Watson. What he couldn’t say was, John was the only endearment necessary because it was given to a baby who would grow to be a man who would look at Sherlock Holmes as though he were something more precious than air and make Sherlock realize that there are some things that can never be logical and that his lover’s entire existence had seemed impossible until he wasn’t. Because John Watson wasn’t impossible, he wasn’t even improbable, he was Sherlock’s and Sherlock was his. 

But John, as he always would, had understood the meaning behind Sherlock’s words and had buried his nose in his lover’s hair, at peace in a way that he had never felt before. 

 

Of course, John hadn’t understood that at the time. Sherlock said his name in the hospital and John was just able to shake himself out of his shock long enough to turn off his music.

Sherlock’s nose scrunched in distaste. “Do you always listen to awful music? Your YouTube history must be dismal.” 

“Wha…Sherlock, what are you doing here?” John asked, face scarlet. 

In response, Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and planted it on the bed beside John’s thigh. “I don’t like not knowing,” he said, eyes fierce. 

John stood firm under Sherlock’s odd scrutiny, his heart racing. “What don’t you know?” 

“Why,” Sherlock said, gripping the crumpled paper in his fist, “does your grandmother have to do with you taking tea white only in the evenings?” 

John stared at Sherlock in shock and awe and adoration as Sherlock stared at John, eyes remaining fierce and curious. John looked at Sherlock, his hair in disarray, his purple shirt rumpled and stained underneath his impeccable coat, the bags under his eyes, and bruises against his pale skin. John looked into Sherlock’s crystal eyes and saw something different from the sands of the battlefield he had been ripped from, something different from the sweltering heat and the harsh caress of sand and the parched taste in the back of his throat. No, Sherlock’s eyes reminded him of the Thames at midday, bright and clear on the surface with the promise of something far darker just beyond his reach. They felt like the chill that runs up your spine at the instinctual recognition of danger, like the sound of feet pounding against pavement, like the feel of a gun in his hand. They felt like midnight in a city that pounded with danger and fire and light. And just below that surface of assured danger and promised exhilaration, was something John couldn’t yet see, something that picked at his chest and make his heart settle. He didn’t know what it was, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to find out because Sherlock asked him about tea and for the first time in weeks, in _months_ , John laughed. He laughed until tears rolled down his face, laughed until the nurses came in and told him not to break his stiches, laughed until his shoulder began to throb. He laughed and Sherlock, after a moment of shock, laughed with him. And neither one would admit it, but the sound of their laughter mingling was the most wonderful thing they had ever heard. 

 

It had quickly become apparent that John had no place to go. Harry didn’t have any room (nor the presence of mind), his parents lived too far off, and all of his friends were off fighting a war. This hadn’t bothered John. He had far worse things to worry about and the army had bedsits available for him. He would not be homeless, at least, not for the present time.

Sherlock, however, was furious. “You have nowhere?” 

John shrugged. “Not really.” 

Sherlock turned toward the window, hands fidgeting. The man hadn’t left John since he’d arrived, seeming to subsist on hospital coffee and John’s uneaten pudding cups alone. 

John returned to staring at the ceiling and listening to Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together.” He had always been a fan of Mariah Carey, and he blamed Harry for it whenever someone commented on it. That’s what happens when you’re sister listens to solely heavy metal and power ballads. John had never been a fan of heavy metal, it made his head ache when Harry got into one of her moods and blasted it through her boombox speakers. But Mariah Carey? Both Watson children could agree when their mother called her ‘a goddess of song.’ 

“You could stay with me,” Sherlock said a voice so rushed that it took John a moment to decipher the sentence. 

John’s jaw dropped. 

Before him, Sherlock stood at the window, facing away from him. John studied the wild curls, unwashed and shaggy. He studied the tense set of his shoulders, the way Sherlock crossed his arms as though it would hold his chest together. John wondered how someone who could turn off their emotions with the flip of a switch could look so vulnerable now. 

“Really?” John asked. 

Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened further. “Yes,” He said, annoyed that he had to repeat himself. 

John’s face broke into a delighted smile that Sherlock didn’t get to see but would, in the future, see constantly, and just for him. “Well that settles that then. I can’t say I have much stuff, which is probably for the best, you look like a bloke with a shirt for every day of the month. Where do you live anyway?” 

Sherlock’s shoulders slackened. He spun around to look at John. “Central London. It’s dodgy, I can’t lie, but it’s suitable. Well…suitable for some,” Sherlock corrected, face going pink. 

John frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Nothing that can’t be fixed. Besides, I’ve wanted to get a more suitable flat anyway.” 

“Hang on, what’s wrong with your old flat.” 

Sherlock’s neck was red now. John couldn’t say he minded. 

“Well, my flat on has one bedroom. In the short term, that should be fine, I rarely sleep anyway and the sofa is adequate for sleeping when I need to.” 

“Hang on, you invited me to stay with you _knowing_ that you don’t actually have room?” 

“Like I said, John, I intend to relocate anyway.” 

John pursed his lips. He didn’t like the thought of stealing Sherlock’s room, but Sherlock was looking at him with something akin to hope and John couldn’t deny _that._

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” 

Sherlock gave him a grin and that made John’s heart drop into his stomach. He really should have guessed. 

 

After the initial move-in day in which there was copious flirting over John’s meager belongings and Chinese, they had retired to their sleeping areas with little more than a ‘good night.’

Sherlock solved petty cases over email and sulked in his boredom. John cursed his cane and the stupidity of a psychosomatic limp. They argued over thumbs in the fridge and bullet holes in the walls and anything that was worthy of a sharp word, if only because they had nothing other to do and they both felt as though they were drifting in stagnant water. 

That is, until Sherlock got a case in Newcastle. 

_“John,”_ Sherlock shouted, bursting into the bedroom one morning. 

John immediately shot to his feet, only to crumble to the ground again. 

“John, now’s not the time, we have a case!” Sherlock complained, despite the fact that he helped John off the floor and handed him his cane with a gentleness that served as an apology for causing John pain. 

“A case?” 

“Yes! Can you drive?” 

“Yes?” 

“Good. We need to go to Newcastle. Can you be ready in an hour?” 

“Yes, but Sherlock-“ 

“What, John?” 

“Why am I coming?” 

“Because you have to drive, obviously.” 

“You can’t drive?” 

“Deleted it.” 

“You deleted _driving?”_

“Deleted!” 

 

So that’s how John Watson found himself driving up the A1 with Sherlock Holmes’ feet pressed against the dashboard.

“Where did this car come from?” John asked. 

“My arch enemy,” Sherlock said darkly, eyes narrowed. 

“What? Why are we driving it then?” John asked, suddenly terrified that the car might explode beneath him. 

“Needs must,” Sherlock said breezily, turning on the radio. 

The song that came on was an odd, indy thing, but John didn’t say he minded. _We have you wrapped around our trigger finger. Queen bee yellow, you’re the skin to your stinger._

Sherlock, however, sighed in exasperation, flipping through channels rapidly until John recognized a song and shouted for him to stop. 

Sherlock froze with a frown, not recognizing the song. 

John turned that sucker up. 

“This was my sister’s favorite song for a while. She used to play it on our drive to school _every day,_ ” John said with a grin. 

Sherlock shuddered as the singer went into an intense falsetto. “What _is_ this?” 

“I Believe in a Thing Called Love’ by the Darkness.” 

“They call themselves _the Darkness_?” Sherlock hissed. 

John laughed. “Yeah. They’re pretty great.” 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. “They sure like singing in falsetto.” 

John chuckled. “Well _of course._ That’s the best part of the song. You’re just upset because you can’t sing that high.” 

“Ex _cuse_ me?” Sherlock said. “I assure you, I can sing higher than you.” 

John rose an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Holmes?” 

 

And thus, Sherlock and John found themselves singing at the top of their lungs up the A1. It was true, John could sing higher than Sherlock. It was also true that Sherlock sounded better than John, whose philosophy was: it doesn’t matter if you sound poor when only dogs can hear you.

By the time they reached Newcastle, both of their voices were sore, they had eaten through a family sized bag of Hula Hoops, and Sherlock had had his phone thrown into the backseat of the car. 

The phone-throwing had been John’s doing, of course. Sherlock, the bastard, had gotten annoyed after the fifth Mariah Carey song they had found, seemingly by chance, and had started playing the worst country music John had ever heard. “HOW DARE YOU SULLY MARIAH!” John shouted, the car swerving out of the lane as he wrenched Sherlock’s phone from his hand and threw it in the backseat. 

Sherlock stared at him in utter shock, blinking rapidly. 

John stared back. “Yeah. Keep that awful music to yourself.” 

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent, face red. 

 

At the hotel, John found himself surrounded by party-goers. He frowned, looking at the matching suits and flowers. “Sherlock?” He asked as they waited in line to check in.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock asked. 

“Are we going to a wedding?” 

“Technically, we’re going to the reception.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me this? I only packed jeans, Sherlock! _Jeans!”_

“That will be more than suitable,” Sherlock said, handing him a room key. “We’re photographers, not a part of the bridal party.” 

John thought of all the shitty photos he had taken throughout his life. He distinctly remember his mother taking away his camera at his cousin’s wedding because he was blinding people with the flash and also using too much film taking shots of the cake. 

“I know, you’re shit at it. Fear not, there isn’t actually film in the camera,” Sherlock said, unlocking their door. 

The room consisted of a queen and a twin bed. “Seeing as you have stolen my bed for the past month, I believe I am owed the queen,” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah, sure,” John mumbled, still worried about his new acting role. 

Sherlock handed him a camera. “You’ll do fine. It’s not even that intensive. You have the same name, same face, it’s just you’re a photographer. Only one thing is different. Even a simple mind would have trouble getting that one difference confused.” 

John frowned. “Thanks for saying I don’t have a simple mind.” 

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not what I said at all, but alright.” 

 

The wedding was smashing. The DJ was fantastic, the bride and groom were in love, the food was delicious, and everyone was too preoccupied with looking nice and getting drunk to notice that John had spent most of the time eating cake rather than taking actual pictures of the bride and groom.

John stared at the partiers on the dance floor with the sort of longing that only a man who, even with the use of both of his legs, wouldn’t actually dance anywhere save the sanctity of his locked bedroom. 

“Would you care to dance?” 

John jumped, turning to see Sherlock skulking in the shadows behind him. He narrowed his eyes. “Why can’t you start a conversation like a normal person?” 

Sherlock crinkled his nose. “Why would I want to be _normal?”_

John smirked. 

A year from then, John’s limp having vanished for good, he would remember this conversation as Sherlock pulled him toward the dance floor, a shy smile on his face. John would feel the cool metal of Sherlock wedding band against his skin and smile, broad and loving and at peace in a way that he had never been. All would be well, he thought, as long as he could hold his husband’s hand. Then, John and Sherlock had danced for a long time, relishing in the newness of their marriage. 

But John could not dance with a limp and he told Sherlock so, eyes going distant and sad. 

Sherlock pursed his lips. 

“Fair enough,” He said, and stood beside John instead. They watched the party dwindle to a few close family members and the bride and groom. 

John gave a faint smile. “I haven’t been to a wedding in a long time,” he murmured. 

Sherlock gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve never seen the point of weddings. There hardly seems to be a need to devote yourself to another person in such a way. Especially when one considers the implication of property transference involved. At this point, it’s nothing more than a gigantic waste of money.” 

John laughed. He laughed so loudly that the remaining guests turned to look at them. Sherlock rose a curious eyebrow. “What?” 

“Nothing,” John said, sighing with mirth, “it’s just…you really don’t care about social protocol at all, do you?” 

“Why should I?” Sherlock asked, defensive. 

John gave a lopsided grin. “You shouldn’t.” 

Quite honestly, Sherlock could not control his actions at that point. It was as though the firm hold he had had on his heart shattered under the gaze of one John Watson and without bidding the bride and groom a farewell, he dragged John by the arm and didn’t let go until he was slamming the door of their room, panting heavily. 

“Sherlock?” John asked, half in irritation, half in worry. 

Sherlock spun, crowding John against the door, looming over him with all the fieriness of his eyes and his height and his intellect. He gave John a heated glance and John gaped at him, mouth attempting to form a question. 

Sherlock’s pounding heart stuttered. His mile-a-minute mind paused. A part of him knew, even then, that when he kissed John Watson, he would not want to kiss anyone else ever again. 

He took John’s mouth in his own, pressing him against the wall. 

John gasped into his mouth and for a moment, Sherlock thought he had miscalculated, that he had been wrong, that John didn’t feel the fire between them, burning Sherlock into oblivion. 

But John’s gasp became a groan, pushing against Sherlock’s mouth. His arms rapped around Sherlock’s shoulders, tangling in his hair. Sherlock whimpered at the touch, pressing himself flush against John, his hands trapped between John’s shoulders and the door. Sherlock broke off the kiss, panting hard. 

“John,” He gasped, hair falling over his eyes. 

John brushed his fringe out of his face with a tenderness that contrasted, and yet somehow also complimented, the fierce kisses he planted along Sherlock jaw and neck. Sherlock groaned as John trailed his nose down the length of Sherlock’s neck, sucking on his collarbone. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” John murmured, trailing his hands along Sherlock’s waist, bringing his hands underneath his shirt. Sherlock whimpered into John’s mouth. 

“John, _please,_ ” Sherlock said, rutting against John’s stomach. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John all but growled and Sherlock felt it in his _toes._

John cupped him through his trousers and Sherlock saw stars. It was over too quickly, Sherlock muffling his groans into John’s shoulder, shuddering as John pushed him against the wall, whimpering as John sucked love bites onto his neck and his throat and his chest. 

And when Sherlock returned the favor, dragging John to the bed, Sherlock watched as his lover, his love, the most dear thing he would ever hold, his future best friend and partner and husband, came apart at the seams, trembling under his touch and he fell in love all over again, watching John’s dark eyes look at him with a universe of adoration. 

Years later, when Sherlock would lie in bed and _ache_ for an armful of John, he would think back on that first night together as he lay tucked into John’s shoulder, tracing his scar with curious fingers. He would think of John’s deep breaths against his hair and his calloused hands against his bare back and he would remember how he had never felt content until that moment. And it would be ok, lying alone in the dark for another night, he would think. Because he knew that John had it worse, had taken the worse burden upon himself. He would ache for John with the knowledge that, when they were allowed once more, he would take John to bed and neither of them would leave for a week, at least. _More like a month,_ Sherlock thought as he curled into himself and tried to go to sleep. 

But the morning after, when Sherlock woke to John’s soft kisses along his temple and opened his eyes to find John looking at him with an ocean of adoration behind his eyes, he didn’t mean to say anything besides, ‘good morning.’ But instead he said, “Marry me.” 

John stared at him in utter shock, face pink. Sherlock felt as though he were falling into himself. What had he done? He was an idiot. They had only known each other for a few months, had only slept together once. He hadn’t even told John he _loved_ him. Sherlock’s mind came to a screeching halt. _He hadn’t told him he loved him._

John laughed. 

Sherlock felt like dying. 

John saw his face and his eyes flooded with concern, his laughter dying immediately. “No. That’s not…I’m sorry, I’m just- You _really_ don’t follow social protocol.” 

Sherlock stared at him, trying not to get distracted by John’s hands cupping his cheeks. “It’s fine love, it’s all fine. But I do have a few questions.” 

“That seems fair.” 

“What about all that rot about marriage being a gigantic waste of money?” 

Sherlock had no answer for that. Instead, he buried his head into John’s shoulder and shrugged. John gave a content sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. 

“Sherlock….do you love me?” 

Sherlock stiffened. He pulled away from John, planting one hand over his scar, the other cupping his cheek. “Yes,” he said, and was shocked by the truth of it. “I love you, John Watson.” 

John’s face burst into a giant smile and Sherlock immediately set it to memory, along with the overwhelming warmth that filled his chest at the sight. 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. 

“I love you too,” John said, moving closer to Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s smile could have outburned the sun. He buried his face into John’s hair, breathing him in. 

“And the answer is yes, by the way. Yes, I will marry you,” John murmured. 

And so they were married on September 21, 2005 at precisely 10:37:04 am. And ever since that day, Sherlock, and later John, set the seconds of their lives to that day, a constant reminder that their lives truly began when they began it together.


	3. Ocean's Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the game begins...
> 
> I want to thank you all for responding so well to this fic! I'm so glad people enjoy it!

_Whatever it takes_  
_Or how my heart breaks_  
_I will be right here waiting for you_  
_“Right Here Waiting,” Richard Marx_

 

John was no poet, he knew this. But sometimes, poetry stuck. When his mother took him in her arms one night, her son battered and bruised, she had responded to John’s declaration of “It’s unfair,” with poetry. And John remembered it and kept it as a reminder.

“Life is not always fair, my dear. They hurt you because you are different and because they can’t find the words to define you. Life never advertised itself as being fair. In fact, it is known for its uneven kilter. Life is like balancing a pen on one finger, you can do it, but not forever, and some people can do it far longer or far better than others, but those people are not always the same. And life does not care if you are the kindest person in the world or the cruelest, it does not judge us by our hearts. But it will be alright, John. Because you have always been stronger than your adversaries. You will not go down without a fight.” 

In the desserts of Afghanistan when the heat would pound on John like a physical force and the gunfire would be so close as to make his ears ring, John held onto the image of himself balancing a pen on his finger. He wasn’t going to let it drop yet, he would order himself, he had far more ahead of him than behind. 

When Sherlock had come into their flat (still the dodgy one, they didn’t need two rooms anymore), and handed him a file without saying a single word, John’s stomach dropped. 

They had recently celebrated their fourth anniversary. In the time in between, John had lost his limp, gotten work teaching at a local university, and assisted Sherlock on his cases in all the time in between. Sherlock had slowly begun to rise up the ranks and had seemed to recently get his foot stuck in the door with a man named Lestrade, who, albeit begrudgingly, trusted him. 

Despite the fact that John didn’t get to help as often as either man liked, they were happy. Exceptionally so. And John, for one, intended to keep it that way. That is, until he saw Sherlock’s blank expression as he handed him the file. There were a plethora of ‘blank’ expressions in Sherlock’s facial library, and John had come to learn every single one. This particular one John liked to call I-Can’t-Look-Too-Happy-Because-That-Would-Be-Not-Good. 

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked. 

He was sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying his day off with a full breakfast for once. Sherlock sat heavily across from him. 

“We have a case.” 

“Excellent! What’s it about?” 

“It’s about multiple criminals. Two, to be precise. Well, if we do the job right, it will be about an entire web of criminals, but the goal is the two.” 

“Alright. What’s the catch?” 

Sherlock paused, looking at John with unmasked worry and anxiety in his expression. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped, taking John’s hand instead and tracing his lifeline with his pointer finger. 

John waited for him to gather his words, enjoying the feel of Sherlock’s fingers against his skin. 

“This case is the case of a lifetime, John. It will be very hard, and it will involve a lot of sacrifices…from the both of us.” 

“Ok?” John said, beginning to feel fear rise in his throat. 

“I have discussed it with Mycroft,” John’s heart plummeted, “and we have agreed on the safest and most efficient way of proceeding. All we need now is your permission.” 

“Why would you need my permission?” John asked, voice soft in the way that it got before he exploded, in the way that it got because he could feel the enemy in the air with the rise of the hair on the back of his neck. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them, a stream of words flooded from his mouth. “Because we’ll have to pretend we’re not married.” 

John frowned, taking a moment to make sure he processed that right. “I’m sorry, what? Why does our being married have anything to do with this case?” 

“We have to go undercover John, that’s the only way it’ll work. It’s like a game of chess. You have been kept relatively hidden and I, relatively unknown. When that changes, it cannot be known that we are married. In fact, the second half of the plan depends on it.” 

“Ok. Ok, start at the beginning, who are these people.” 

“The first,” Sherlock said, flipping through the file to point to a man with dark, slicked-back hair and cold, cold eyes, “is James Moriarty. He’s believed to have his fingers in all sorts of crime. His specialty seems to be everything. The other, is a sniper that goes by the alias Sebastian Moran.” 

“You don’t have a picture for Moran.” 

“She’s never been seen.” 

“She?” 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes agonized. 

“Alright,” John said, trying to hold on to his husband’s train of thought, “what’s the plan? We pretend we’re not married, what then?” 

“We create a different life. You’re story begins in a year’s time when you come home invalidated from Afghanistan. You have a psychosomatic limp and a scar on your shoulder. Somehow,” Sherlock waved his hand around, skipping over the details, “you find me. We meet for the first time and we become flatmates. You help me on my cases, I fix your psychosomatic limp, we become friends. We build a reputation, through, don’t laugh, that drivel you write about the cases.” 

John frowned. He had a whole stack of notebooks documenting Sherlock’s cases. He even took the time to add witty titles to them and everything. He had mulled over making a blog, thinking it would help Sherlock’s publicity, but Sherlock had stolen his computer for a week when he had suggested it to him, so the issue had been dropped. 

“You want to be blog about them, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re an arse, my love.” 

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “So, blogging, solving crimes, gaining an international reputation. It will draw Moriarty out of his shell. He’ll come to play, and we’ll be ready for him. And we’ll take him down.” 

“Alright, sounds simple enough. What about this Moran woman then?” 

Sherlock pursed his lips. “This is where it may get…tricky. You’ll have to take acting classes, for one thing.” 

John frowned deeply. He was not bad at acting. But he was bad an improvising, something acting on Sherlock’s behalf always demanded. 

“And you may, very likely, have to get married.” 

Sherlock could practically see John’s train of thought crash. “Wait…married to…not you?” 

“Yes, married to not me. It would be a fake wedding, of course, but she would think it was real.” 

“Wait…why do I have to fake marry her? Why does anyone have to fake marry her? Why on earth would the safest solution involve someone living with a criminal sniper?” 

Sherlock rose an amused eyebrow. “John, you live with a sociopa-“ 

“Not actually a sociopath.” 

“You live with a _sociopath_ every day. You have done so, quite happily, for the past four years. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll have to take down the rest of Moriarty’s web, seeing as that involves far more acting than pretending to be basically yourself but also in love with a criminal sniper.” 

“Right, so let me get this straight,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you want me to let you go undercover by yourself while I fake marry a sniper? Why does she need to be married?” 

“Predictably, Mycroft and I assumed that, if anyone were to find the information necessary to put her in custody, it would be to her spouse. Granted, we assumed that she was attracted to men, let’s hope so otherwise we’ve run out of options.” 

John smirked. 

“Right, so, I’m assuming as the case goes on we’ll better plans then, ‘somehow you find me.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock said, eyes burning. 

“And, at least for the first half of the case, we’ll essentially be living as we do now just…secretly.” 

“Yes.” 

“How long do you think it’ll take?” 

“It’s a predicted six year commitment. Mycroft is rarely wrong with such things.” 

“And we’ll take down the bad guys?” 

“We’ll be taking down the worst criminal in England.” 

John gave a wicked grin. “Right. When do we start?” 

 

And thus, nearly a year later, the game began. Lestrade began to trust Sherlock, Sherlock began to take better cases, and one day, John walked into St. Bart’s hospital and laid eyes on his husband, for the first time in six months without any makeup or false accent or disguise. He schooled his emotions as he laid eyes on those oh so familiar chestnut curls because what he really wanted to do was push past bloody Mike Stamford and run into Sherlock’s arms. But he didn’t, just as he didn’t laugh out loud when Mrs. Hudson asked him if they needed two rooms, just as he refrained from waving at Mycroft when he limped over to him in a darkened parking lot. At the start, at least, it was bloody good fun. The “Study in Pink” ended with Chinese at two in the morning and a refined walking up the stairs before the mad groping to of clothes and the heavy panting between lips and the desperate whimpers of two men who were having the time of their lives.

Of course, things went downhill after that. John had to keep up a long train of women he didn’t care for at all and kept having to make up excuses as to why he didn’t want to have sex nor, in most instances, kiss them or hold them or show any sort of affection whatsoever. The women assumed he was broken by the war, and when they eventually broke up with him, John would breathe a sigh of relief with the knowledge that it would take him a few weeks at least to find another woman to flirt with. 

Sherlock was not, surprisingly, a jealous creature. Perhaps it was because it was for a case, or perhaps it was because John came home from his dates feeling disgusting and wrong and would stand in the shower for a half an hour, just to feel as though their perfume had been washed from his skin. But more so, perhaps it was because after every date, once he had showered and gotten into his pajamas, John would pull Sherlock into his arms and would tell him in a stream of thought, how very much he loved Sherlock. John was not one to vocalize his affections. But in those moments, when their true life was so buried under the grand masquerade they had created for Moriarty, John needed Sherlock to _know_ , even if he couldn’t show it. 

“That night at the park…It was like you were some odd angel, I could hardly be frightened after meeting you. It was strange….There were times when I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t. I always knew I’d come back, that I wouldn’t die there. How could I when the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me was waiting back in London? You were such an arse today,” He chuckled, pulling Sherlock closer, “I wanted to snog you silly, going off on your own, those Black Lotus people could have shot you. God, and what would I have done? Mycroft’s your bloody emergency contact now, I’d have no right to visit you. Well I guess that’d serve you right, having to deal with Mycroft because you were stupid enough to get shot. I try to remember what you said. _There’s only one difference._ But it’s not like the photography case. I’m not lying about my job, I’m lying about you, Sherlock. I’m lying about the most important thing that ever happened to me, the most _wonderful_ thing that ever happened to me. And sometimes I just want to scream at Donovan or Anderson or anyone who thinks you’re someone _incapable_ of love when I know, I _know_ that you are, you absolutely are. You’re bloody _brilliant_ at it.” 

In those moments, Sherlock buries himself where John’s neck and shoulder meet because a part of him loves to hear how he is loved, and another part of him breaks with the knowledge that he has brought his husband to these ends, that it was his idea to deny them the one thing that they were most proud of. 

“We’re been married for six years, ten months, eight days, twenty seven minutes, and thirty seven seconds.” 

There was a pause as John absorbed what Sherlock was saying. “You keep count?” 

“I’ve kept count since the moment you put a ring on my finger. It helps…well, it’s the only date that _really_ important and…it helps, to remind myself that, despite all this, you still haven’t filed for divorce.” 

John clutched to Sherlock, horrified that Sherlock would think for even a moment that John would want to divorce him. “No, Sherlock, never.” 

“I know, John. I know.” 

“I just…sometimes I get so _tired_ of them.” 

“I’m so sorry, John.” 

“Just…tell me he’ll come out soon. Tell me it’ll all be worth it.” 

“Of course, John. I wouldn’t have considered it if it wasn’t worth it. It’s his move now, we’re ready for him.” 

 

Of course, when Sherlock said they were ‘ready’ for him that ignored the finer details of Moriarty’s move. John couldn’t say he had been expecting to be captured on the street and dragged to the pool down the street. He could say, however, that the only thought in his mind when Moriarty personally put the semtex vest over his shoulders was, _fucking finally._

The Showdown, as John would later call it, went well…according to Sherlock, who, at that point, was desperate to understand his enemy’s style. Of course, the fact that they almost blew up was, according to John, Not Good. But Moriarty had made his move. And now it was their turn. 

 

John did not like the Woman. He thought she was cruel and egotistical and…he was jealous. Oh, he was jealous despite the fact that he was watching his gayer-than-a-rainbow husband dealing awkwardly with Irene Adler and he knew, knew logically that it was impossible, that Sherlock loved _him_ , that he had the love bites on his shoulders to _prove_ it, had the ring hidden beneath Sherlock’s stash of cigarettes to _prove_ it. But that was the thing, it was bloody _hidden_ and here was some woman strutting over to his husband and flirting with his husband and calling his husband sexy as though she knew the _half_ of how sexy Sherlock Holmes was. It set John’s jaw on edge, the nerve of her.

That whole year made John want to lie down. The bloody Woman wouldn’t bloody go away bloody bloody bloody _fuck._

Sherlock knew something was wrong after the fifth play of “Runaround Sue.” 

“Why is it,” He asked, coming to kneel beside John in his armchair, “that you deal with every foul emotion by playing foul music?” 

John frowned at him, nursing his tea as if it were something stronger. 

Sherlock ran his hands up John’s thigh. “You have to admit, John, that that Woman is ridiculous. Coming to sleep in our bed. She used my bloody shampoo too, the bitch. Does she know how much that bloody stuff costs? She doesn’t even have curly hair.” 

John cracked a smile. “Heaven forbid someone steal some of your fifty pound shampoo.” 

“Seventy pound, John.” 

“ _Seventy?_ Bloody hell, Sherlock, it’s a good thing you have that bloody trust fund.” 

Sherlock smirked. “ _Grandmere_ always did understand my needs.” 

When John laughed, Sherlock knew all was well, even if he did listen to “Runaround Sue” a few more times, just for good measure. 

 

The case that would come to be known as “The Hound of the Baskervilles” was not a part of the Moriarty plan. It was what Sherlock liked to call, “Fun Cases” and what John had started referring to as “Side Quests.”

It was certainly not fun. 

In fact, John wanted to _kill_ Sherlock for drugging him, wanted to tie him by the toes to London Bridge and watch him waft in the breeze like a gangly rag doll. He told Sherlock as much, and Sherlock apologized in the way that showed that he wasn’t sorry for the action, but eternally sorry that it had made John upset and really, John couldn’t be too angry with his mad husband. Not with the Plan in the back of his mind reminding him that very soon his Sherlock would be off destroying a crime syndicate after convincing the world he’d died. 

Upon hearing the Plan, down to the dramatic suicide phone call and Sherlock’s bloody skull on the pavement, John had pulled Sherlock closer to him and said, “It’s like a magic trick.” 

“I mean…no. But ok,” Sherlock responded. 

“No! It’s like that movie, _The Prestige._ It’s about magicians-“ 

“That’s probably why I’ve never seen it.” 

“ _Any_ way, there’s this guy in it and he says that there are three parts to a trick…I forget their names, but the last one’s called the prestige, it’s the part where, after having disappeared something, you bring it back. Without it, the trick isn’t any good.” 

Sherlock paused, fingers curling around the hair at John’s nape. “So I have to come back.” 

“You have to come back.” 

“Ok,” Sherlock said so softly, and after so long a time, that John barely heard him through the soft hum of sleep. 

 

Despite the fact that John was expecting it, knew every aspect of the Plan down to the millisecond, there were some things he couldn’t prepare for. The gut-wrenching feeling that came when he spotted Sherlock standing on the ledge of St. Bart’s was one of them.

“Hello?” John said, answering his phone. 

“John.” 

John couldn’t help but think that the way Sherlock said his name, standing on that godforsaken rooftop was the same way he said his name after having burst into his hospital room. It was the way he always said his name: as though it were something more precious than the hardest puzzle. John’s heart stuttered in his throat. He turned around, and saw his husband standing on the ledge. 

“What’s this?” 

“An apology.” 

And that, when John would look back on it, was the point at which his heart broke. 

“I’m a fake.” 

_“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

“Ok, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, _the first time we met_ , you knew all about my sister.” 

_“Your hands. They are small and calloused, they match the set in your shoulders which, although still boyish, are in the stance of a military man...”_

“Nobody could be that clever.” 

_“That was amazing!”_

“You could.” 

_“You think so?”_

“It’s a trick, it’s just a magic trick.” 

_“So I have to come back.”_

“Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?” 

_“You have to come back.”_

“Goodbye, John.” 

_“Ok.”_

“SHERLOCK!” 

And that was, when Sherlock looked back on it, the moment his heart broke. Because he had never heard John say his name that way, say it as though by saying it, he was saving the man. He had never heard John’s voice crack like ice in the middle of his name, had never heard it as though it were the bludgeon that broke John’s heart. John should never say his name like that. Never. 

“He’s my friend. Please, he’s my friend.” 

_He’s my husband. He’s my love. He’s my whole heart, the very best part of my weak, silly heart. I love him I love him I love. Sherlock._

 

Sherlock would never forget the way John was able to make “friend” sound like so much more than friend. His ears would still be ringing with his husband’s silent goodbye, a firm press to his wrist, a gentle stroke of his pulse, as he pleaded for his life. He would be half way to Russia before he stopped shaking.

John came home after the Fall, stumbling and covered in Sherlock’s unshed blood. It wasn’t until he went to bed, when the sun had started to rise and he realized he hadn’t slept in forty eight hours, that he found Sherlock’s note. 

Well, rather, two notes. The first was the one he had given to him as Basil, the night before they ‘met.’ It read, simply, _I love you, husband._

The second, of course, was longer. 

_John,_

_Forgive me._

_I’m not sure why I feel the need to apologize for something we planned together…perhaps I’m asking you to forgive my leaving you. I believe that’s only the half of it, but you’ll understand what I cannot, I’m sure. What hurts you, hurts me._

_I love you. As your husband, I feel as though I should bid you good luck in your future sexual endeavors. I’m sure, since you’ve managed to snag one insane person, seducing another one should be a walk in the park. Please don’t love her back. That’s stupid, of course you won’t love her back…please don’t love her back. I understand that these few years have been hard. I also know that the next few will be far worse. I cannot say I regret our actions. Something had to be done. And yet, the pain it has caused you is something I cannot forgive myself for. I love you. I have loved you every day since I met you. I hope that that will be enough until I return. Seven years, one month, two days, five hours, forty minutes, and fifty six seconds._ _All my love,_ _SH_  

John fell into a restless sleep clutching the letter to his chest. Seven years, one month, three days, two hours, ten minutes, and fourteen seconds. 

 

John met Mary at work. It was surprisingly easy to find someone who was also looking for you. After Sherlock’s death, John had become a giant target as a mystery man destroyed Moriarty’s web. It seemed as though, if Moran couldn’t kill Moriarty’s murderer, she would have to be satisfied with killing Moriarty’s murderer’s pet.

She came into the surgery, her bleaching blonde hair neatly pulled back, and John thought that, had he not been lost seven years, two months, seventeen days, fifteen hours, eleven minutes, and two seconds ago, he would have been more than happy to flirt with her. As it were, the process brought a lump of bile to the back of his throat. 

“Hi, I’m John Watson.” 

“Mary Morstan.” 

John gave her a winning smile and Mary’s cheeks reddened. It was good to know that even with his heart thousands of miles away, he could still make someone blush. 

 

Things went quickly after that. John made sure to touch her, kiss her, show her that he loved her in a way that would make his proposal predictable. Of course he loved her. How could he not? She was brilliant, funny, everything that John wanted topped with a simple life and a house with a white picket fence. It was too bad he had abandoned that idea of ‘happiness’ after he laid eyes on a man who was a whirlwind and a relentless embrace all in one.

He didn’t tell her that he had gotten a vasectomy the day after their first date. He kept that hidden away with the other small lies he had to tell her throughout their relationship. He rarely spoke of Sherlock and when he did, it was with the reserved loss of someone who loved, but platonically. Mary rarely asked about the detective and John was glad for that. 

At night he would lay in bed beside her, the mixture of their love scenting their sheets, and he would try not to break down. Those were the hardest moments, when he wished, wished with all his heart, that his Sherlock were home, that _he_ were home, in the arms of someone he loved with all his heart, someone who loved him just as much. He would lie in bed, Mary tucked into his arms, and imagine a nest of chestnut curls tickling his chin and quicksilver eyes glistening with laughter. He would go to sleep with sweet memories dancing across his mind, and when he’d wake up with Mary rubbing his morning wood, he could pretend, for a moment, that it was his husband drawing groggy moans from his chest. When he woke up, of course, he returned to the bitter taste of reality, and John Watson would fade back into the gray of his half-life, always keeping himself one step in the protection of his memory. 

 

He didn’t hear from Sherlock for three years. Instead, John was left to piece together the severe drop in crime bosses as mysterious strangers kept turning them in to the authorities. They had been married for ten years, two months, one day, two hours, five minutes, and fifty nine seconds when Sherlock sent him a message: four words on a postcard from Paris. John almost cried with joy, looking at the familiar personality in the unfamiliar handwriting. Mary had raised an eyebrow at John’s barely concealed reaction.

“A friend of yours?” She asked. 

“You could say that. Haven’t heard from him in ages, the bastard,” John said, hoping that the warmth in his voice was only apparent to his ears. 

He set the postcard on the mantelpiece so that he could read the note when he sat in the armchair by the fireplace and stared off into space rather than read the book in his lap. 

_I’m heading home. Tea?_

John tried to hide the smile and the flutter in his chest at the thought. _Home. Sherlock was coming home._


	4. When the Moon is Big and Bright

 

_You can't dance and stay uptight_  
_It's a supernatural delight_  
_Everybody was dancing in the moonlight._  
_“Dancing in the Moonlight,” Toploader_

 

John quite enjoyed beating Sherlock’s sorry arse. He quite thought he deserved it after all this time. Of course, it also gave him the chance to straddle Sherlock’s body and feel his hands run electric against his arms. He deserved it after making fun of his mustache. John had needed something to differentiate his lie of a life with reality. He had gotten tired of looking in the mirror at a man who had once been the spouse of someone brighter than the stars betray said spouse and sleep with an assassin/nurse who had everything John had once wanted and yet nothing, nothing in comparison to his love.

Of course, he felt horrible about it when, scrambling to take off clothes and kiss and take, John found the brutal scars still swollen on Sherlock’s back. In fact, he had ended up on the bed, tears streaming down his face, running his hands gently down his husband’s back, tracing the scars and feeling Sherlock shudder with his own tears. It was getting to be too much, John knew. They had made up, but at the cost of nearly dying twice. Sherlock had nearly given them away when he dragged John out of the Guy Fawkes bonfire. Too tender were his hands, too loving were his eyes. 

At least with the bomb, alone in the tube station, John could bury his face in Sherlock’s dramatic and ridiculous and _wonderful_ coat. 

“John. Oh, John,” Sherlock murmured, clutching to him as though it was a matter of life and death. 

“Sherlock,” John chocked. _I missed you. I missed you every day. I ached for you every day. I love you I love you I love. I watched you fall and I broke inside, I watched you die and I stood at your grave and despite everything, I still broke. I missed you I missed you, please never leave me again. Never leave without me again._

“I know, John. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, pulling John closer. 

Of course, the cruelty was, John had to go back to the apartment of Mary Morstan, pretending to be furious with Sherlock, pretending that he hadn’t just shagged the man in an abandoned tube carriage with a bomb (turned off, of course) inside it. He had to pretend that when he proposed to Mary, it was because she was everything he had ever wanted, rather than a pawn in a game that, for the sake of the country, had to be acted out. 

 

Sherlock was delighted to plan the wedding. He was delighted by anything that brought him within the same room as John, even if that involved Mary. Mary liked Sherlock. Sherlock, had she not been a target in a case and also the woman who his husband was shagging, liked her as well. She was insane and cruel and self-serving, and she was very good in her role. Sherlock would have adored her had she not been Moriarty’s second in command.

Sherlock refrained from telling John just how often he woke up screaming. John didn’t tell Sherlock how often he broke down in the shower when Mary was still sleeping. And Mary had enough smiles for the three of them. 

The evening of the wedding, Mary stood before John and Sherlock and told them that she was pregnant. Sherlock stared at her in shock. 

“What?” 

“You didn’t deduce it?” Mary asked, eyes glistening. “I’ve known for a few days, didn’t have much time to bring it up until now.” 

“Until our wedding day?” John asked, horrified. 

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide. 

Mary shrugged. “Aren’t you excited? We’re going to have child, John.” 

Sherlock left the wedding before John could talk to him. He didn’t answer John’s texts nor calls. And, with a honeymoon John was forced to go on, he found himself, finally at the door of 221b two weeks after the revelation. 

He took the steps deliberately. He didn’t know what he would find up the stairs. Well, he would find Sherlock, and, no matter what state he was in, they would figure it out. That’s how they worked, after all. Ten years, five months, twelve days, thirteen hours, five minutes, and twenty nine seconds. 

Sherlock was smoking on the sofa. The entire flat was filled with smoke, the windows closed tight. “Sherlock?” John said, coughing. 

“John,” Sherlock said and John felt the icy tone slide down his chest. There was no love in a tone like that. 

“Sherlock, it can’t be mine.” 

Sherlock looked up, ignoring the question of ‘how do you know?’ in order to properly deduce John. His eyes narrowed. 

John looked a right mess. He hadn’t slept well for the past two weeks, hadn’t shaven much either. His shirt was stained with coffee, his shoes squelched from a puddle he had absentmindedly walked through, and his hair looked as though it had been combed in the dark. 

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered. 

“Yeah, oh,” John replied, trying to laugh and failing miserably. 

“I thought…” Sherlock began and then stopped, his face crumbling. 

John came to him, hands up in silent surrender. He kneeled before his husband, fingers ghosting across Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock looked to John, all the pain and fear and loss written openly across his face. “Never, love. Never for a second.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes tight, holding back emotions. “Ten years, five months, ten days…” 

“Twelve days.” 

“Twelve days…thirteen hours, fifteen minutes, and forty seconds.” 

“Now it’s more like forty two seconds,” John said, finally resting his hands on Sherlock’s thighs. 

Sherlock opened his eyes at the touch. “I’m tired of this game, John. It needs to end soon.” 

“I know, love,” John muttered, feeling the weariness fall heavy on his shoulders, “I’m tired too.” 

“We can finish it in about five months.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“If I’m correct in my deductions, then yes.” 

“Sherlock…” 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock said, his voice returned to its loving tone. 

“I don’t think Mary’s actually pregnant.” 

“What?” 

“I think she’s faking it.” 

“You think she can fake pregnancy in front of a genius and a doctor?” 

“Yes.” 

“She’s brilliant.” 

“Yes.” 

“I think I would quite enjoy her, given different circumstances.” 

John chuckled. “Don’t tell her that, she might get ideas.” 

Sherlock cheeks burned. “You haven’t been that obvious have you?” 

“I don’t think so, but she does quite like you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s it that hard for people to realize I’m gay?” 

John laughed. “Most people think you’re a robot, love. Funnily enough, people don’t usually connect Sherlock Holmes with sex.” 

“What a shame for them.” 

“Yes, quite a shame.” 

Sherlock grinned and leaned in the kiss John. John felt the taste of forgiveness on his lips and knew that all was well…well, as well as it could be given the circumstances. 

 

Things went to shit when Sherlock walked into the Magnussen’s office and found Mary Watson with a gun.

For a moment, they stood facing each other, the gun between them. Behind them, Magnussen lay unconscious. 

“Sherlock. Finally.” And he knew, knew because it had always been obvious, that Mary had wanted to kill him since the moment he came back from the dead. 

Sherlock charged her. 

Mary shot at him, grazing his coat, just missing him as Sherlock tackled her to the ground, forcing the gun from her hand. The weapon slid across the floor and out of reach. 

“Sherlock?” John called from downstairs. 

Mary froze. 

Sherlock grinned. 

Mary growled and clobbered the side of his head. The last thing Sherlock heard was John’s wife muttering, “You fucking bastard,” as she shoved him off of her. 

 

Sherlock woke with a stale taste in his mouth. He was tied to a chair by the wrists and ankles. He waited for Mary to come to him. For three days, he waited. When she finally did, it was merely to give him water and knock him unconscious with the back of her gun. By the time he woke up again, blood was dripping to the concrete floor. He moved his shoe away from the droplets, fretting over the shoes John had gotten for him for the last birthday they had spent together as a normal couple.

“You haven’t shaved, Sherlock,” Mary commented, running her knife along Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock decided against a comment on the fact that he hadn’t had the opportunity in the past few days. 

“I have to keep some degree of sanity in my appearance. I have an international reputation to uphold.” _And a husband to please._

“You deduced me _wrong_ ,” Mary says as if it’s some sort of victory. Sherlock refrained from saying that he was only wrong about the pregnancy thing. He refrained from saying that he understands now, that Mary meant to kill him, had never meant for him to live, from the moment he came back to life and her boss didn’t. 

John stepped into view just behind Mary and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life than Doctor John Hamish Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, looking as though he hadn’t slept in four days, and holding a gun as though he were born carrying it. 

When it had come down to it, Sherlock thought as the bullet shot toward Mary Watson, it was easy to deduce Mary’s false pregnancy. Certainly, the woman was an excellent actress, but, as soon as John had brought Sherlock back into his normal mind, Sherlock found the façade immediately. Mary had needed a reason to keep John, an emotional manipulation before she killed Sherlock. Also, he thought, as the bullet slammed into Mary’s body, John had wanted to do that for a _long_ time. Well…perhaps not the murder bit, but definitely the part where Mary goes away and _never comes back._

Mary fell to the ground, dead before her head smashed against the concrete and John stumbled toward Sherlock. 

“Are you alright? Are you alright, love? Sherlock? Sherlock, talk to me,” He muttered as he shaking fingers tried and failed to break the zip ties. “She’s zip tied you.” 

“I noticed.” 

“Do you have a knife in that ridiculous coat of yours?” 

“Of course. Right inside pocket.” 

John cut the zip ties and Sherlock collapsed out of the chair, panting heavily. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, love, are you alright?” 

John fell to the floor in front of Sherlock, hands scanning his body for injuries. 

“I’m fine, John.” 

John paused, recognizing that Sherlock wasn’t dying, and looking to his husband. “It’s over?” He whispered, blinking hard. 

Sherlock grinned. “You made that quite definitive, John.” 

John’s face crumbled and at first, Sherlock feared he was about to burst into tears. Instead, John’s shoulders shook with peals of laughter. 

Sherlock chuckled. “We can’t laugh, John, it’s a crime scene.” 

That only made John laugh harder. 

And that was how Lestrade had found them, lying on the floor, their arms wrapped around each other, laughing as tears streamed down their faces. 

 

Lestrade, being Lestrade, toted them around the Yard and introduced them to people they already knew. “Have you met Sherlock and John?” He would say. “They’re married. Have been since I’ve known them. Yes, that’s right, I’ve been informed that they shag _on a regular basis_. Take that, Anderson! Someone owes me money, you _all_ owe me money.”

It turned out that Lestrade was the only person on the team who thought Sherlock wasn’t a virgin. They had a bet going as to how long it would take Sherlock to get laid. Lestrade, being the only one to argue that it had already happened, took over a hundred pounds of profit. There was also a bet going around as to when John and Sherlock would shag each other. Lestrade had bet that they had shagged the night John shot the cabbie. Seeing as everyone else was predicting closer to three years into their flatmate-ship, and then had to change their bets to account for the fact that Sherlock had died and come back to life, Lestrade won _again_ and, in grand total, scored over three hundred pounds in profit. 

Sherlock looked absolutely horrified at the prospect that his sex life was a common conversation amongst the yarders. “What does it _matter_? Why does no one think I have sex?” 

John laughed so hard he had to sit down. 

“John!” Sherlock complained. 

“I…I’m sorry, love, but…” 

“Did he just call Sherlock _love_?” Anderson spluttered. 

Sherlock frowned. “He calls me love regularly. It’s statistically his favorite endearment.” 

Anderson looked as though he might faint. 

Lestrade was counting his money, cackling into the night and muttering things like, “Married! Married the whole bloody time. I should have known. No one’s strong enough to resist that level of sexual tension. They practically had eye sex every time they stood over a body.” 

By the time they got home, the dawn was breaking over London. Lestrade offered to give them a lift, but they refused, preferring to walk home, hand in hand through their city. 

They stopped at Speedy’s for breakfast before heading up to their flat, hands still firmly pressed together as they ascended the seventeen steps and fell into bed together, finally and completely home. They didn’t leave the bed for two days. 

 

Years later, in a different bed, in a room with a window overlooking beehives and the fields of Sussex, Sherlock would roll over and look at his husband, sleeping soundly in the early morning light, and he would be reminded of the way, so many years ago, John had muttered ‘I love you’ against every inch of his skin as they reacquainted themselves with their marriage bed.

Through the years, Sherlock would explode things on the kitchen table and John would fail to understand Sherlock’s train of thought. They would argue and make up and argue some more, just for the hell of it. And sometimes, when things got too much or a more thorough reminder had to be given, Sherlock or John would merely mutter an amount of time. _Twelve years, one month, three days, two hours, twenty seven minutes, one second_ or _thirty years, seven months, thirty one days, twenty two hours, five minutes, and zero seconds_ or _fifty years. Fifty years exactly, love_ and all would be well. And sometimes Sherlock would play Mariah Carey on the violin or John would put an extra lump of sugar in Sherlock’s tea, just to see the smile on his face, or Sherlock would get distracted at a crime scene and peck John on the lips mid-deduction, or John would catch Sherlock dancing to his ‘music drivel’ and would dance along. And, on warm summer nights when the air was just cool enough, Sherlock and John would travel across town to Kensington Gardens and lie on the grass, listening to the radio. And if a certain copper caught them in the early morning singing up to the stars, he paid no mind, humming ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ under his breath as he walked toward London’s streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! That's a wrap! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments! I really enjoyed writing this story and I'm glad ya'll have enjoyed reading it.


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